


then again, those branches

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Liam notices something odd about Louis, he’s too young to care.</p><p>(Alternatively: Liam is lost half the time, Louis is something special, and Harry, Zayn, Niall, and Josh rule the world through the power of music.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I'd like to say that this is entirely self-indulgent.  
> Second, this is entirely fictional, as I'm sure you all know (or at least, I certainly hope you do!).  
> Third, I'm not confident in my grasp of the English language but this is practice, and so.  
> Fourth, I JUST REALLY WANTED TO WRITE THIS, OK.
> 
> Character death warning. Not the boys, though.

The first time Liam notices something odd about Louis, he’s too young to care.

Louis always had this spark about him, like sunshine or lightning—and he always seemed to smell like grass does after the rain—but Liam chalks it up to hero worship. Louis had always been his, and Liam remembers the first time they meet: Liam was waiting for his mother to pick him up, and he was swinging back and forth on this swing. He always loved swinging really high—so far back that all he can see is the grass below him. By the fifth time he pushes up he sees blue eyes looking at him curiously.

Louis, all cheeky grin and glowing eyes, offered him his Batman action figure that James Matheson had stolen from him—and Liam thanked him with a shy smile and quiet gratitude. Louis’ eyebrows furrowed, asked Liam if he was alright (Liam still remembers vividly, how those were Louis’ first words: _you alright?_ ) before Liam ran away in fear. Louis always did seem bigger than him, especially back then before Liam had his miraculous growth spurt. But Liam ran, because new things scared him. There’s a certain power to him that Liam could not explain; he just knew that this really cool kid had something about him that made Liam feel something weird in his chest.

Louis was still there the next day, in the same swing-set that Liam had sat in the day before—and Liam almost wanted to feel bad because that was _his_ spot, not anyone else’s—but Louis offered Liam his hand, shook it.

“Don’t think I introduced myself. How very rude of me,” Louis said, “I’m Louis Tomlinson.” Louis held out his hand, expecting Liam to shake it or grip it or _something_ , and.

Liam was baffled at first: Louis seemed like he’s from Year Eight, at least, and he looked way too cool, sporting his braces in a way that his father did not, and here he was offering his _friendship_ (or at least, what seemed to Liam like friendship. He’s never understood social norms much, even when his mother exasperatedly attempted to teach him the hows of socialising with people.),

Liam sighed and took Louis’ hand anyway, expecting a punch to land in his chest or his face or _anywhere_ , really. When Liam took his hand back, he saw some toffees in his hands. He _loved_ toffees.

He may not have kept those thoughts to himself, because Louis says, “I know,” before he pulled Liam towards their school’s small garden. No-one ever thinks to set foot in there, especially not primary school kids like them, mostly because their instructors would chastise them for it, but Liam uncharacteristically throws caution to the wind, because for _once_ , he’s met someone willing to befriend him.

Louis shows Liam the numerous flowers in that garden, and he could name them _all_ (which was not at all something Liam expected from someone as cool as Louis). Louis always was a character, even back then, and he’d chatter away like it was nothing, eating almost all of lunch break just telling Liam stories of where these flowers come from, and he talked about magical creatures as though they were real. The stories remind Liam of his grandmother, who lights up animatedly when Liam asked for stories at her bedside. His mother told him it was the only joy she found, now that she could no longer move about as much as she used to.

Louis always met Liam at the garden without fail—except, maybe, for those times when Louis doesn’t show up for school. Liam always wondered why he disappeared once a month, but he’s overheard some teachers talk about the Tomlinson kid and how his mother had kindly asked for three days of excused leave (at the most) every month. It should have been his first clue that Louis was something else, but all he cared about was how he finally, _finally_ felt like he belonged.

\---

Liam invited Louis to his house seven months after “The Batman Incident” (or so Liam calls it—complete with capitalization and quotation marks). The first place Liam led Louis to was his grandmother’s room, and Liam _knew_ they would get along instantly. Liam loved his grandmother dearly, and did not feel jealous at _all_ that he’s sharing her attention with Louis. His sisters were already distant, too old for these stories, but Louis—Louis eats it all up like he _needs_ these stories. He was like her second grandson and Liam would be damned to take that away from her.

It was a week before his grandmother passes away when she asked Liam to step away from the room to tell Louis _something very important_. It didn’t take too long before Louis met Liam again in the living-room sofa, tear tracks staining his features, before he smiled at Liam and invited him to play footie in that empty patch of grass near Old Man Cowell’s mansion.

Louis never brought up what transpired inside that room. That should have been Liam’s second clue.

\---

Louis left town on the day his grandmother had passed. This was almost-normal to Liam (probably his school leave for the month), but it was three days to early (he _counts_ ). The 12th of April. Liam shrugged, and spent his lunch hour reading a book Louis lent him— _Phantasmagoria: Wonderland’s Greatest Cities_. Liam never liked reading anything except for his comic books, but Louis always lent him the _best_ books.

He had a deep sense of foreboding when the year adviser whispered to his Math teacher. He felt a shiver run down his spine when his name was called. Liam’s hand was gripped tight, and he was ushered to the school gates. His mother was waiting inside the car, shoulders tense and eyes unfocused. His father was in the passenger’s seat, worry marring his features. Liam does not know what is going on before his mother drives to the hospital where he meets Ruth and Nicola near a scary-looking room at the hospital.

The details were a blur, but he still remembers being told that his grandmother was calling for him. He remembers standing up and walking briskly to the room, wanted to _be there_ for her and do _something, anything_. His grandmother glanced at the tattered book Liam held in his hand, and he could’ve _sworn_ she smiled, though the doctors say she was too sick to move much muscles. She couldn’t even so much as _twitch_.

Liam sat at the chair next to the bed, and scooted closer to her. She glanced at him and he saw wonder in her eyes. If he hadn’t been so intensely focused on his grandmother, if he was too deeply stuck in thought, he may not have heard, but he _did_ , and he didn’t _understand_ anything at all.

“Take care of him,” his grandmother whispered.

Liam’s stopped crying ever since he was bullied about it—hadn’t cried at all since he’s finished his kidney treatment, because he was _brave_ —and he won’t, now. He refused to let his grandmother see him sad, not when he knows it may well be her last memory of him.

\---

His grandmother’s funeral was held a week after she died—the nineteenth of April. He hadn’t seen Louis since that dreaded day, the twelfth, and that held an additional weight to his grief. As words were being said—words that Liam himself could not be bothered to understand—he thought: _loss isn’t just for grownups_.

Liam Payne encountered Death—not his own, but Death, nonetheless—when he was twelve years old. He has _got_ to move on, he knows, but he always kept a copy of Louis’ goddamn _Phantasmagoria_ book under his duvet. He never let those sheets go, not that duvet. His grandmother lovingly made it for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam grows up. He tries to forget. He never can.
> 
> (Alternatively: When Harry Met Li...am.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Louis for this chapter (???)
> 
> Warning for sexual content.

\---

The first person Liam met at Uni was Harry Styles.

Liam decided the big move across the pond when he realized that there’s not much left for him here, in terms of opportunities: he thought he couldn’t keep up running track because he doubts he’s nearly as fast as he used to be after he got hospitalized three years ago; and the only gigs he could get were small-time café-type ones where he’s always asked to play covers of Michael Buble. Not that he minded, of course; every opportunity to sing is an experience, but he felt like he was missing out, almost, like he was going through the motions of wake up-eat-sing-sleep.

Nicola told him about a music school in New York— _might be good for you, yeah?_ —and Liam up and took the first chance to apply. He got in, of course, under scholarship because apparently, he had “potential in your chosen field.”

See, Liam always liked music, all aspects of it. He enjoyed singing (and made a bit of his fortune by doing those gigs he’s come to appreciate), and playing, and he enjoyed piecing together some things from some stuff he’s heard.

“Music production, yeah?”

Liam shakes himself from his stupor, as he sips on the last of his tea. They don’t make it like they do back home—the Americans were often too fond of coffee and didn’t give tea much attention—but he’s grateful for the availability, nonetheless. He looks up from where his eyes were resting (on the dregs of his tea), only to be met with unruly, curly hair, and impossibly green eyes.

Liam shakes his head again, attempting to clear himself from confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Oh,” the man says, “Might have scared you a little there. Harry Styles.” He holds his hand out, and by this time, Liam’s already used to social niceties (he could hear his mother sigh _finally_ exasperatedly) that he meets the hand with his own.

The third thing Liam notices about Harry Styles is how his arms seemed to be littered with all sorts of markings. At first, Liam thought they were merely temporary; those… _things_ on his arms seemed too ridiculous to be permanent, but he’s only shocked to find later on that they’re permanent. Liam will refer to Harry’s arms as having a “scrappy, scrapbook quality” to it, later on, but that is neither here nor there.

“Yeah, I’m. I’m Liam. Liam Payne,” Liam says, “And. I’m sorry, but how did you—”

Harry points to Liam’s table, where his application forms were scattered. True enough, on his dormitory form, he’s already written his major.

Liam chuckles. “Yeah,” he says, “Of course.”

There was an awkward silence or two, before Harry starts, “Think you can help us, then?”

Liam shrugs. “That depends,” he says, humouring Harry. “How may I help you?”

Harry removes his apron—“I’m off-duty _now_ ,” he says (and _oh_ , he was a barista here, Liam notes)—and Liam fixes his papers. School wasn’t for another month; he can fix everything else later. Harry eagerly occupies the seat in front of Liam, then he starts talking in a slow sort-of drawl-like thing. It hits him, then that Harry’s from home as well. Not exactly Wolverhampton, but it’s close enough to home for him to find Harry less serial-killer and more comfort.

“So I was thinking,” he says, and he trails off, sensing something (Liam presumes it’s his mobile vibrating), and he takes his out. He begins to type a message, from what Liam assumed of his hand movements, and he patiently waits for Harry to continue his story. It seems like Harry almost forgets Liam was there, until Liam gets his own phone out and messages Nicola, _at the tea place close by yeaaaaaa just havin fun_ , before he clears his throat. Harry looks at him curiously, examining him, almost.

“I was thinking,” Harry starts again, “that maybe you could help us with something.”

Liam waits for Harry to continue, because he’s said this before.

“We’ve got a band, Liam Payne,” Harry says, “we’ve got a gig tonight, and our techie ran out last-minute, and besides our instruments, we’ve no idea how to set the stuff up.”

Liam smiles apologetically. “Sorry, mate,” he says, “’fraid I don’t know much. Only just starting first-year, after all.”

Harry looks a bit dejected at this, but he still smiles this genuine smile. “It’s alright. Sorry to bother you,” he says, “It’s just—we’re desperate, yeah, and we really want this to be our big break, y’know?”

It may be too forward of Liam to have done so, but he sets his hand against Harry’s shoulder, rubbing consolingly. He knows how it’s like, thinking you’ve got the world when you haven’t; hoping that things turn out greater than they usually are. It used to be him, dreaming of the Olympics, or maybe a decent career, but he’s tempered, a bit. And while he still holds on to the hope that he’ll end up doing what he loves even if he is backstage to the process, he’s tempered, now. He’s thinking realistically.

Liam nods anyway, for Harry’s sake.

Harry seems to have relaxed under his touch. He looks up at Liam, eyes glinting curiously. “Want to watch us play, anyway? I’ve got a ticket to the place,” Harry says.

Liam nods. “I’d be honoured, yeah.”

\---

Liam shows up at this pub with low lighting and it smells better than he expected. He assumes it’s because he arrived quite early and the only people he sees are a few young men who had just gone off work and are having a few pints, ties loose and cheeks pinked. He’s a bit thankful at the cleanliness of the place (though he’s not optimistic it will stay that way much, much later), as he sits himself down in front of the bar. The bartender looks at him inquisitively— _just water, please_ , Liam requests—and he thinks of how he ended up here.

He’s startled from his thoughts by the faint whirr of a fan. He turns around to see the source, only to face Harry Styles and who he assumed was the rest of his band members. There’s a drummer, a bassist, another guitarist besides Harry. Typical band staples. He doesn’t know what to expect, if he’s honest, but he accepted the invitation, anyway, since he’s been at a point where he’s wanted people to watch him.

(He’s really ever truly _desired_ for one person watch him, but that is a dream too far away, only figments his mind conjures when he’s too far away from all the noise.)

“Liam!”

Liam turns his head again towards Harry’s band, and he sees Harry motioning for him to join their little quartet. Liam shrugs—what else can he do while he waits?—and makes his way through the already-forming crowd towards Harry.

Harry grins when he finally sees Liam up close. “Thanks for coming,” Harry says. “We’re about to start so you can stand right there, yeah. Front-row, since you’re nice and all,”

“But I’m not—” Liam starts, before he stops himself, instead opting for a short thanks. “Have you got your problem sorted?” Liam inquires.

“Yeah! Yeah, we’re great,” Harry says. “Perrie’s friend knows how to fix these things, apparently—” and Harry goes off to launch a story about how Perrie’s second cousin’s aunt’s daughter or something was the sound engineer for some musical or another, and while Liam doesn’t know all the characters of this story, he finds Harry an amusing storyteller, so he listens anyway. He’s interrupted, of course, when one of his band members call for him.

“Sorry, mate,” Harry’s bandmate says, “But we gotta start. Make yourself comfortable, yeah?”

Liam nods. “Oh, it’s quite alright,” he says.

“Name’s Zayn. Malik,” and he holds his hand out to shake. Liam notices that he’s got tattoos like Harry, but his were way more organized. He sees tiny elements united by some sort of skull patterns or textures or something, to make a (way more badass) half-sleeve. Not that he’d tell Harry that; Liam thinks he’d be offended.

Zayn offers him a beer bottle, which Liam refuses. “I don’t drink,” he says, and Zayn gives him this look that says he finds it ridiculous. He shrugs it off, though, and instead offers him iced tea. Zayn runs back onstage to strap on his bass guitar as Harry introduces themselves.

“Hope everyone’s having a great time tonight,” Harry says, and he strums a chord. “So,” he continues, “It’s our first time performing outside school stuff, and we’re grateful that you’re all here tonight.”

Liam hears a few women cheer, one person distinctly saying _I love you, Harry!_ in one silent moment. The crowd laughs.

“Love you all too,” Harry says, “And as you all know, we’d like to call ourselves The Intention,”

Liam almost guffaws. It’s such a typical teen-pop-punk band name, and yet somehow, it’s suitable to Harry’s group.

“So I’m Harry Styles and on lead guitars is Niall. Zayn’s on bass—”

“ _OH MY GOD ZAAAAAYN!_ ” Liam hears, and he couldn’t blame them; Zayn’s got a well-proportioned face sculpted by the gods. Not Liam’s type, not entirely, but Zayn’s pretty goddamn good-looking.

“—and on drums,” Harry continues, “is Josh, who recently proposed to an Irishman right here a bit too early. Must be the alcohol,” he says. Liam notices the lead guitarist, Niall, turn cherry red and Josh steps on the bass drum a bit much, hitting the crash and the ride and saying _fuck you, Styles!_

“Well, here’s our first song—”

Niall steps closer to the microphone set-up for him. “Yeah, let me take this one,” he says. “So Zayn was feeling broody, like he usually does—” Zayn rolls his eyes, “—and he wrote this ‘cause he couldn’t ask this girl Pez out on a date, and—”

Liam observes the crowd while Niall’s talking, notices how intent most of the audience was. There’s a certain sort of appeal to this band, Liam supposed, that attracts an audience like this. It certainly helps that the boys themselves were good-looking, and once they’d started the song, he _gets_ it.

Harry’s voice floods the room, all sultry and indie-rocker, interspersed with some verses from Niall. Niall was especially talented with the guitar, and Josh’s playing was crisp. Yeah, he certainly understands the appeal.

\---

Two sets of five songs later, Liam’s sitting down by the bar, downing the same iced tea that Zayn offered him. He’s approached by Harry and his band, all prepared to get wasted. Liam doesn’t know what he’s still doing here, but he supposes he best be polite.

“Liam!” Harry greets. Liam stands to give Harry a hug (he supposes he’s close enough for it), and Harry smiles brilliantly. He introduces his band one by one, Zayn, Niall, and Josh. Harry calls the bartender and asks for five shots for the five of them. Liam refuses, says he can’t drink, but Harry badgers him on.

“I really can’t drink,” Liam says, “I’ve only got one kidney,”

At this, Harry stops pestering him. Niall looked disappointed at the notion.

“Can’t even take a pint?” Niall asks.

“’Fraid not,” Liam replies. He stands up and fixes his shirt. “But—it’s alright, yeah? I best be going home, might ruin your fun,”

“No!” Niall says, “You’ve got to _stay_ , Liam! Who’s gonna watch out after us?”

By the looks of it, it seems no-one is intent on staying sober tonight. Liam shrugs and wonders if anything will go wrong by this arrangement anyway. He supposes not. He fishes out his mobile from his trousers as he types a short message to his sister that he’ll be home late— _it’s okaaaaay I have teh keysssss_ —and hits _send_.

Turns out, the boys are a _riot_. Niall and Josh fix this whole beer pong set-up, Zayn’s going around hitting on people anywhere (and always manages to fail to do so—Zayn, Liam realizes, is a _geek_ under the leather jacket and the cigarettes), and Harry.

Harry is strangely quiet. He’s staring into space, the complete opposite of his earlier disposition, and Liam wanted to ask why. He felt like it would be too invasive to do so, however; Liam’s just _met_ him today.

“You alright?” Josh asks, mug of beer in hand.

“Might want to ask _him_ that,” Liam says, pointing to Harry.

“Oh, he’s. Oh god,” Josh says. “Haz? Haaaaz?”

Harry remains unresponsive, only watching the bubbles of his beer travel up.

“God. Damn, Haz, you gotta go home. Moping about him’s not going to win him over, is it?”

“Him?” Liam asks, then catches himself. “Sorry,” he says. “None of my business.”

Josh sighs. “Naw, it’s alright,” he says, “Long story—one that I’d prefer he tell you himself.” Josh attempts to poke Harry, only to be met with flailing hands. He faces Liam, pout forming in his lips. Unbecoming of Josh, he thinks, but then Josh may already be slightly buzzed.

“Liam,” he says, “Mind doing me a favour?”

Liam nods. “It’s fine. It’s—it’s okay, yeah,”

“Mind taking Harry home for tonight? Doesn’t seem like he’ll budge anytime soon,” he says.

“No problem,” Liam says, as he takes Harry’s arm and slings it around his neck. Harry’s lighter than what he’s used to at the gym, no big deal. Liam rattles off his number so Josh can message him Harry’s address, and he faithfully does so seconds later.

“Hey, Harry, c’mon, we’re getting you a cab,” he says.

“But why,” Harry whines. First words of the night before he got spectacularly drunk.

“We’ve got to get you home,” Liam reasons, and he’s lucky to have dealt with a very drunk Andy back home; Harry’s _nothing_ compared to that.

“No, Leeee, I mean, _whyyyyy_ ,” Harry drawls, “Why won’t he even loooook,”

“Come on, Harry, it’s alright,” Liam comforts.

Harry keeps silent for a while, comfortably seated inside the cab. Liam directs the driver to Harry’s address, before Harry bursts again.

“But it’s _noooot_ alright,” Harry says, “I want him so much and he doesn’t even caaaaare,”

Liam sighs. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” he says.

Harry dozes off in-between the trip (it wasn’t too long), and Liam settles in the comfortable silence. The cab smells like beer and smoke and Harry’s vomit, and it’s enough to make Liam retch. He’s got enough courtesy for the bored-looking taxi driver to hold his gag reflexes back. He squeezes his thumbs.

Finally (thankfully), they’ve arrived at the building, and Liam wonders how Harry could afford it here. It’s at the better part of town, and the lobby is certainly posh enough. Liam walks towards the elevators with Harry in tow, and presses the fifteenth floor. When Liam’s reached the fifteenth floor, he asks Harry if he’s got any keys.

“I—I left it with _him_ , I think. Leeee, it’s with him and he _hates_ me!” Harry says, shaking off sleep and remembering his grief.

Liam sighs. “Have you got any roommates, then?”

“Yea—yeah, but just ring the bell, it’s fine, don’t—”

Liam rings the doorbell repeatedly, until he hears a loud voice _screaming_.

“If that’s Hazza drunk, just leave him there; I’ll carry him,” the voice says.

“Yeah, just listen to Lou, I’ll be alright,” Harry says, eyes already managing to zero in on Liam’s face.

“Are you sure? I mean, I can’t just leave you—”

“It’s alright, Liam,” Harry says soberly. “Thank you,”

“If you’re certain,” Liam says, and he rings the bell twice more. “Harry’s better now,” he says loudly. “I’ll leave him here, if that’s alright!”

“That will be all, thank you,” Harry’s roommate says, and he leaves Harry leaning against the door. He can well support his own weight now, anyway.

Before the elevator doors close, Liam could hear Harry’s door open—and he _swears_ he felt a little warmer after the event.

Liam wonders how one day could’ve brought him that much to deal with, but he shrugs it off as he makes his way back home.

\---

Liam doesn’t see Harry and the gang for a month after that, and frankly, he feels worse off for it.

He found them fun, hoped he’d have a group of friends now that he’s been witness to their drunken adventures, but he shrugs it off, reasons that they’ve probably got their own shit to deal with. Liam, meanwhile, is attempting to write songs, and words always manage to escape him. He’s always got the music down, he already knows what they sound like even before he starts playing the instruments, way _before_ composing it, but it seems he can never grasp lyric-writing. He supposes he’ll take electives on writing lyrics, then.

It still bothers Liam that he still hasn’t seen Harry. He’s become a regular at the café he first met Harry, and yet, for all that Liam was _sure_ Harry was a barista, he’s never actually seen him.

The one on the counter, Danielle, knows him well enough, though, and she always manages to sneak some biscuits with the tea she prepares. She seems to prepare them better, too. Tastes more real, somehow.

Liam, oblivious as he is, only realized that Danielle fancies him after she writes her number on his cup. He goes up to the counter to a nervous Danielle, and he’s thankful that it’s not peak hours yet. He doesn’t know what to say, how to let her down easy. Dani’s _lovely_ , and he’s kidding himself if he denies she’s _gorgeous_ , but he sighs and takes her hand, anyway.

“I’d hate to break your heart, Dani,” Liam says, “But I’m afraid I can’t be attracted to you in the same way,”

Dani purses her lips and exhales. “Alright,” she says, “It’s alright, Liam, _really_ ,”

“It’s not you,” Liam says, “It’s me,” and upon realizing the cliché that’s escaped his lips, Danielle _chortles_. Liam laughs with her because it _is_ a ridiculous thing to say.

“But really, Dani,” he says, “I don’t play for that team,”

Danielle seems distracted enough by that _ridiculous_ line that she doesn’t seem the least bit bitter. Disappointed, perhaps, but not angry. “It’s alright,” she says, “Seems I’m attracted to those kinds of people.”

Liam shakes his head. “You know I would if I were, right?” he says, “If I were straight, I mean.”

“Stop the flattery, Liam,” she says, “It’s _fine_.”

Out of curiosity, he asks her who her previous crush was on, anyway.

“Oh god. You’d laugh,” Danielle says.

“I promise I won’t,” Liam says.

“Alright,” Danielle says, “I liked _Harry_ , okay?”

Liam wants to laugh—Danielle wasn’t kidding. As far as he knew, Harry’s a bit younger than Liam and Danielle’s a bit old for him—oh, _bugger off, social conventions_.

“Got a thing for curly hair?” Liam inquires instead

“Oh _god_ ,” Danielle says, “I _do_.”

“Keep yours, then,” Liam says. “Stop using the goddamn straightener, Dani, you’ve got lovely, lush hair,”

Danielle blushes, then, whispers a quiet _thanks_ , before Liam brushes a kiss against her forehead. “We’re good, yeah?”

Danielle smiles. “We’ll be the best of friends, Liam Payne, just you wait,”

\---

It didn’t occur to Liam to ask Danielle of Harry’s whereabouts. If he wasn’t mistaken—and judging by the looks of things (and by _looks of things_ , he really just meant how he had not seen Harry ever since that fateful night)—Harry has either got himself a dead shift, or resigned from the job completely.

Two weeks after he lets Danielle down, they really _do_ become good friends. He tells her about how he’s piled with the stress of schoolwork, even when they’d only just begun the week previous, while Danielle tells Liam about her auditions all over. Turns out, Danielle was a dancer and couldn’t find much jobs— _you’d think New York’s the city of dreams, Liam,_ she said—but she always held out hope for a new offer.

It was today—in the height of Liam Payne’s Uni Adjustment Period (he liked naming things), when he doesn’t encounter Danielle’s warmth on the counter.

“Harry,” Liam says. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

Harry squints his face and smiles in recognition. “Liam!” he greets. “What can I get you today?”

“Oh, just—whatever Danielle makes for me, that’s good. Or whatever your best one is, yeah,” Liam says. “Where’ve you been, then?”

Harry writes “Leeeee” on the paper cup, before he meets Liam’s eyes. “Oh, I. I swapped timeslots with Dani, since I’ve been. Recording and stuff.”

“Recording?” Liam says, “That’s great!”

“Yeah, it is,” Harry smiles, “Niall’s knew some people—his cousins, yeah, and they’ve got a record label—that’d be three ninety-nine—and they found us great so. Yeah,”

Liam hands Harry a five before he gets his change back, gives it all to the tip box, and he’s got his tea on hand. “That’s great, Haz,” Liam says.

Harry beams. Quite the opposite of how he was, the last he saw him. Daringly, Liam asks him, “when are you out?”

Harry cocks his head to the side. “An hour, maybe?”

“Mind catching up?” Liam asks, because if he wanted friends he’d goddamn work for them.

“Oh, no, not at all,” Harry says. “Take a seat with Zayn there, he’s making the concept art for the album art for the record,” and he points to Zayn, wearing a hoodie and staring intensely at his work. Harry looks at Zayn fondly, and Liam sees _something_.

Liam sits himself in front of Zayn and Zayn doesn’t notice him at all. He seems to be in some sort of _zone_ and Liam gets it. He’s only ever like that when he’s writing music, so it doesn’t faze him to wait for a bit. It’s fascinating to see Zayn draw anyway, eyes focused on the paper, pen strokes on the paper and on his hands. When Zayn realizes that Liam’s in front of him, he gives a goofy grin in greeting. “Hey, Leeyum,” Zayn says, and Zayn had a distinct way of saying his name.

“Am I bothering you? Because Harry said—”

“It’s fine,” Zayn says. “You’ve got to loosen up, mate.”

“Sorry,” Liam says.

“And you’ve got to _stop apologizing_ , Li! We like you. The whole band does. Gotta relax, yeah?”

Liam nods.

“Alright—”

“We done here?” a voice interrupts and Louis looks up to see Harry looking at them both.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, “You good, Harry?”

“Yeah, let’s. Let’s go?”

\---

They spend that whole evening in Harry’s flat. Liam remembers how big it all seemed to him, and it still is the same right now. He still wonders how Harry can afford all this, but Harry explains it to him as soon as they’ve entered.

“My roommate’s gone every half-month but he still shows up and messes his shit around. He pays all of it,” Harry says. “Lucky I found him.”

“How’d you convince him to let you room here for _free_?” Liam asks.

“Shagged him,” Zayn answers for him. A pained look crosses Harry’s features before he schools it to some semblance of calm.

“He was my ex,” Harry answers, “And he’s great, and I haven’t shagged him ever since, so if you’d _stop_ , Zayn,” and Liam almost sees what’s happening, what Harry’s bemoaning that night.

Zayn goes out—to smoke, he says—and all that’s left inside the flat is Harry and Liam.

“Miss him, yeah?” Liam starts.

“What do you mean?” Harry says, as he sets the food on the counter.

“Your roommate. Your ex?” Liam asks.

“I—yeah, but he visits, so I’m alright.”

“Still want to be with him?” Liam asks, and Harry gives him a look of incredulity.

“No!” Harry says, “I love Lou, but I’d. No, I wouldn’t, we’re like _brothers_ and we realized.”

“Oh, alright, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Liam says, “It’s just—I was worried for you, that night when you—”

Harry stares a bit too hard at the nachos. “That—oh, that wasn’t about him, that was—”

“Don’t feel compelled to tell me, Haz,” Liam says, “It’s really alright. I’m just worried, is all.”

Harry sighs. “It’s _fine_ , Li. Really. You’ve _got_ to stop apologizing. I think I’ve established that you’re a pretty great guy, yeah?”

“Funny thing,” Liam says, and Harry looks up, quirks an eyebrow. “Zayn said almost the same thing.”

Harry smiles at Liam. “Nachos and romance movies, yeah?”

“Heyyyy,” Liam says, “Have you got any Batman?”

Harry frowns, but shrugs it off. “Oh! Yeah, yeah, my roommate’s got a DVD,” Harry says. Zayn makes his way back in, seems to sigh in relief at the sight of _The Dark Knight_ in Harry’s hand.

“Who’s possessed _you?_ ” Zayn asked.

“Liam specifically _asked_ for it,” Harry says, “and we’d watch it, too, if you’d ask.”

“But I like your face when it’s crying,” Zayn says. “It’s _hilarious_ , Lee, you should see him cry to _A Walk To Remember,_ ”

Harry glares at Zayn.

“Rock on, Rockstar,” Zayn says, as Harry presses play.

\---

Movie Nights happen once in a fortnight. Liam would drop his coursework and visits Harry for a bit. Sometimes, it’s just him and Harry; other times, it’s Harry, Zayn, and Liam. Most of the time, though, Movie Nights often involved the whole band. They’d meet outside the movie nights, still, always in Harry’s flat, and they would talk about the music, and the recordings, and Liam _loves_ seeing the practical side of it. They value Liam’s input, even; ask him how these set of chords sound, if that riff goes better with this one, if the beat’s a bit messed-up here and there.

It’s perfectly fine for Liam not to be accepting any credit for him when they’re having him mix the soundboard in a small studio they’ve rented from Harry’s friend, Nick (who Liam’s seen a bunch of times in some of his electives), but when they show him a prototype of the finished product, six months later, the liner notes have a page dedicated to him: _Liam Payne. Master Director._ The titles are meant to be ironic: Niall’s is _The ANiallator_ ; Zayn’s is _The Broody Artist_. Josh’s is _I-Don’t-Know-What-I’m-Doing-Here_ , an ode to ridiculously long song titles from the early 2000s, perhaps, and Harry’s bears the name _Scrapbook Arms_.

Liam’s shocked when he sees his name on there. “Harry, this is too much, I hardly—”

“Liam,” Niall interrupts, “My uncle got the copies you’ve mixed for us, yeah? Barely had to touch it when they’ve burned it on there. They _love_ it. Now let’s get some pizza and I’ll smash your asses in FIFA,” he says.

Josh follows suit, and Liam’s grinning so _hard_. Harry’s looking at Liam with these eyes, these _fond_ eyes, Liam supposed, and Harry gave him a hug.

“We all love you, Li,” Harry said, “Just let us, yeah?”

And Liam allows himself to smile a bit more.

\---

It’s the nineteenth of April.

It’s the nineteenth of April, and Liam never forgets—made sure to have his mum send his tiny box with the book and the duvet. The book’s pages are worn now, the title fading (he almost forgets it), the duvet is immaculate save for the dust (Liam’s made sure to take care of it when he recognized that it’s worn beyond use) and it’s on the nineteenth of April when he allows himself to cry.

Every year, it’s like this: he wakes up to a letter by his bedside, and his mother says they’re all from his grandmother. Each one, since he was thirteen. He’s twenty-one now, and he still reads these ridiculous stories of swordsmen and vampires and all sorts of things because his _grandma_ made them. He kept all eight letters in his box, the ninth at his bedside once more. Liam supposed that Nicola was left with that job since she’s the only one who can access him, and he reads this story.

The swordsman saves the magician. Predictable, but Liam figures it’s because it’s the end. His grandmother said that this will be the last of the letters (and Liam’s tendencies for order itched a bit when she stopped at the number nine) but he supposes it makes sense: maybe his grandmother had these counted, realized that Liam might be too old for this.

But he doesn’t want to forget. He _never_ wants to forget.

Out of routine, he searches _his_ name for anything that might come out. His record is _spotless_ ; Liam can _never_ find anything about him. Liam’s beginning to doubt that he existed in the first place, but whenever Liam looks at his grandmother’s letters and she encircles a character, there’s always the footnote: _Louis helped me think of this_.

There’s _bound_ to have been a Louis Tomlinson _somewhere_ in the world. That damned book was proof of it, Louis’ name written in permanent ink. Liam would ask his mother, and his mother remembered a “kid who wore braces all the time.” Liam thinks he might have loved Louis, but he also thinks of how he was too young for it. Hero worship made the most sense, but is it too much to sate his curiosity?

The second time Liam notices something odd about Louis, he realizes that “odd” meant “non-existent.” Liam refuses to accept that alternative. However, maybe, perhaps it’s time for him to finally, _finally_ let go. He’s twenty-one, he’s got friends, he’s getting job offers even before he graduates, mostly young, impressionable garage bands and YouTube solo artists looking for their big break after The Intention met theirs (they should have been called _The Insatiable_ , Zayn says, and Niall guffaws).

And Liam realizes he hasn’t lived his life around what he wanted, not much. Back home, he was always set-up by his mother on dates with lovely ladies (who then became lovely gentlemen when Liam had finally come out to her), and his time was always fixed-schedule; could barely eat what he wanted because of his disease, and he was supposed to go to college for engineering.

His first big personal move was to pursue music. It’s worked out relatively well for him, but then there’s _something_ holding him back.

There always seems to be on the nineteenth of April, and Harry and Zayn have learned to leave him alone at that date; he’s always stuck by his lonesome, often reading piles of books his grandmother owned. He’s even tried to look for continuations to that one book Louis owned, only to find out that it never existed.

The nineteenth of April always leaves him in a strange state of confusion mixed with moroseness.

He plans to change that tonight.

\---

Liam shows up at Harry’s flat, and he’s caught them in the middle of a heated debate on the merits of vampires, as opposed to werewolves in a society. Zayn seems to feel very strongly about werewolves; Niall, on the other hand, was defensive about vampires. Harry would be the acting adjudicator, and Josh spent most of the debate in laughter. Harry’s got the windows open tonight—it’s a cold night—and he says that his roommate hardly minds any smell in this room, anyway. Liam mentions offhandedly that he’s never met Harry’s roommate in the year he’s known him, and Harry shrugs.

“He’s never here these days,” Harry says, “he’s got an important job to do.” Somehow, Liam understands why they broke up. It’s hardly comforting knowing that your partner was out there doing who-knows-what, never going home and all.

He seems to have vocalized his thoughts (a bad habit of his), because Harry replies. “Oh, he’s been assigned to this one just around the time I met you, actually,” Harry says. “Before that, he was always at home.”

“What does he do, anyway?” Liam asks, as Harry grabs a canister of tea.

“A few very strange things,” Harry says. “A task force of some sort. Some sugar on your tea?”

“Uh—no tea, thanks,” Liam says, before Harry manages to waste his tea. “I’ll just—get something to drink from there, yeah?”

Harry stares at Liam for the longest time, before quietly whispering, “you sure?”

Liam nods.

Harry and Liam walk towards the living-room, where everyone else is. Zayn’s smoking on cigarettes in-between bottles of beer, and Liam sees the beer strewn everywhere. There’s an unopened bottle of Absolut in the middle, a bottle of tequila, a few sodas, some mixing _things_ Liam does not at all understand (they leave that to Josh and Niall), and some shot glasses. Liam grabs himself a beer; he needs it tonight. Harry is warm beside him, hugs Liam tight because Harry knows even when he doesn’t; he _knows_ , even when Liam hasn’t said anything. Liam sits on the floor to complete the circle, and Harry sits very close by.

“Thought you couldn’t drink?” Niall says. “So you’ve been lying the whole time?” Niall eyes Liam accusingly, and Liam throws both hands in the air.

“I magically grew one, I swear!” Liam says.

“Magically grew one,” Niall replies, and then he _laughs_ , that little bugger.

Liam defends himself. “I mean—the doctors said—”

Harry squeezes his thigh. “His second kidney repaired itself,” he said, “And you lot would’ve known that if you were _listening_ when Liam kindly drove us to the airport before we went to that LA gig.”

“Oh,” Niall said, “Alright, then. That means Liam can play! Which side do you choose, vampire or werewolf?”

Liam shrugs. “Neither, to be honest,” he says. “You can’t base the potential merits of certain things to a society off of fictional descriptions of those things.”

He seems to have initiated a certain tension in the room, highlighted by Josh’s tense shoulders and Zayn’s distinctive eyebrow raise, but this dissipates immediately when Niall pipes, “When did you get so smart, Li?”

They all laugh at Liam after that.

\---

Liam arrived at the flat at five-thirty. After that debate, they consumed what seemed to Liam like his weight in Chinese take-out, then they watched a movie, drank some more. They’ve even gone juvenile enough for spin-the-bottle, but naturally, it would involve more provocative truth-questions and more ridiculous dares.

Dares of a sexual nature were perfectly fine with Niall and Josh, and it’s completely _unfair_ that the game seemed to benefit _them_.

It had come to that part of the night when Liam’s buzzed as he can be, a quiet, impatient thrum beneath his skin. He feels comfortable in here, on the nineteenth of April. Certainly won’t wear his lip down biting on it, worrying about what could possibly be holding him down. He still doesn’t understand it _completely_ yet, but he’s made a quiet vow to let go for a bit. He needs it.

The bottle lands on him, and he doesn’t realize until Niall throws him an empty can.

“Uh, dare, I suppose,” Liam says.

“Snog Haz,” Josh says, and maybe—just maybe—this is Liam’s fulfilment of his vow.

Harry was close, warm and comfortable, his _best friend_ , and he’s sure that this wouldn’t ruin things, _not at all_ , and so when he feels Harry’s breath caress his face, Harry’s eyes asking for Liam’s consent, Liam closes the gap between them.

He felt so _good_. It may be a testament to how long he’s gone without anything like this, or maybe Harry really _is_ just a damn good kisser. Liam finds himself lost in it, tasting beer and Chinese take-out and Harry’s sweetness, and he chases it even when Harry’s separated them, a few seconds later. Harry stares at Liam’s lips and Liam looks at Harry’s eyes, seeing so much _want_ there, and he _knows_ how much he wants this, wants _Harry,_ and he _needs_ right now, and.

Harry shakes his head, hands grabbing the sides of Liam’s head as he leans in for yet another kiss. Liam’s intoxicated—from the alcohol, from the smell of the smoke, the smell of weed permeating the room, Harry’s taste against his lips, his tongue, like those red velvet muffins they sell in the café. Liam wants _more_ , and Harry senses this, pulls Liam closer to him as he grinds his hips against Liam’s. Liam can _feel_ Harry hard against him, as they find some sort of rhythm to match the _heat_.

Harry breaks them apart, once again, and Liam’s almost ashamed of the whine he let past his lips, almost—but Harry bit his bottom lip, _hard_ , when Liam whined, and seeing Harry like _that_ sent shivers down Liam’s spine, felt his cock tighten against his jeans.

“Harry—Hazza—” Liam whispers. _Begs_.

“My—my room, yeah?” Harry says.

Liam realized that he’s still in Harry’s living-room, with the band, but Niall and Josh were too busy snogging each other, and Zayn was off to the corner, probably really high and drawing something.

Their presence does not deter Liam from begging _please_ , and they shuffle out of the living-room and into Harry’s bedroom and it’s so _far_ , goddamn, but by the time Harry’s shut the door and locked it, they’re against the wall.

Liam’s already unzipped his trousers, only needing to kick them aside, while Harry attempts to remove what little he’s had on him. Harry’s got a thumb rolling Liam’s nipple, the moment Liam’s chucked his shirt aside, and Liam feels the sparks again—watches Harry kiss his neck, his shoulders, leaving marks on his chest with abandon. Feels teeth grazing his chest—god, _fuck_ , that was so—and before he can even absorb _anything_ that’s happening, Harry’s got his mouth on Liam’s cock, sucking on the tip, a bit, then Harry’s got his hand gripping the base, pumping his cock in timed thrusts that match his mouth. Liam falls into rhythm slowly, fucking himself into Harry’s mouth, and it’s so _tight_ against him, and _wet_ , and Liam wanted to, _needed to come_ , before Harry pulls his mouth out with a pop.

It was a loud, wet pop and Liam thrusts against cold air because _fuck_ , he’s on edge and he wants _more_. Liam looks down to see Harry’s cock flushed red, hard against his stomach, and Harry’s rutting against Liam’s leg, and _damn_ if that sight weren’t so _hot_ —

Liam flips them around, goes down on Harry this time.

“Li—Liam, have you—”

“Yeah,” Liam says, “Haven’t for long but _god,_ Hazza,”

Liam tastes Harry’s cock, licks it—and he can’t say he _loves_ the taste, not entirely, but there’s something so _hot_ about how Harry was so damn desperate that spurs him on, as he sucks and sucks _hard_. Harry grabs on to Liam’s hair (or what little of it remains), his quiff ruined, and Harry looked so hungry for it, so needy, that he wanted to see him—see him come and come undone, Harry’s biting his lip and whining, _Lee, Lee, Liam, please, oh fuck—_ begging for _more_ , and chants almost like a prayer—

Harry comes without warning and Liam attempts to swallow. Some are left trailing down his lips and Harry licks it out of his mouth in a heated kiss. Liam rocks against Harry, finding friction in his hips, and Harry goes down again, grips Liam’s cock, and Liam _knows_ it will take him just a few more from Harry, his hands moving fast fast and faster, and his mouth was on his balls, tasting experimentally before taking them both and Liam—

Liam’s _gone_ , and he’s moaning like he’ll never have this again, he _hasn’t_ for a long time, hasn’t allowed himself to. And Harry’s so damn _different_ from all the nameless faces from places past, feels _sated_ for the first time.

He feels a heavy slumber come upon him—but he grabs his shirt and cleans himself, cleans Haz, before they both lazily, slowly crawl to the bed, too spent on doing much else, and they lie asleep under Harry’s sheets.

\---

Liam’s an early riser, but he looks to the nightstand and sees _3:00_ and knows that it’s not time to get up yet. He feels a cold beside him, though—no Harry—and Liam would think it was all a dream, that he’s back at his sister’s, but he checks the clock again and knows it’s not his.

Liam hears voices—a conversation Liam couldn’t be bothered to understand. He hears a kettle whistle, hears cups and pouring.

“You’ve got to stay safe,” Liam hears. _Harry._

Liam hears the other voice, and it’s _familiar_ to him. He remembers, then, having brought Harry back here from the pub, the first night they met, that same bright, warm voice. Harry’s roommate, perhaps. He hears words he doesn’t understand the context to. He hears _alright_ , and _two months_ , and he hears this phrase that took on a certain edge, an order, a _warning_. Liam catches _care_ and he hears _him_ , and he hears the door shut.

Liam closes his eyes and goes back to a dreamless dark, save for a voice, his grandmother, her last words.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's roommate is mysterious, Liam (still) doesn't have a clue, and he's finally beginning to find some sort of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It must be said that I am a huge fan of codependent OT5 and tried my best to portray that here.

\---

Liam wakes up with a throbbing head the morning after. The smell of eggs wafts through the air, and Harry’s not by Liam’s side again—but the side is warm and there’s an indent where Harry should be. Liam looks towards the nightstand and sees a cup with something steaming hot, and a post-it stuck on it. _Drink it, then go back to sleep. It tastes horrible, but it works better than Tylenol. We’ll talk later, Harry x_

Liam sips the contents of the cup, burning his tongue once or twice before having it cool down to a suitable temperature. Liam doesn’t know what Harry’s put in there, because it only takes him moments before he’s knocked out of consciousness again.

\---

Liam wakes up again to Zayn sitting beside him. Liam blinks his eyes a few times, letting them get used to the bright lights. He stretches his arms and Zayn hums.

“G’mornin’,” Zayn says.

“Time is it?” Liam asks.

“Noontime, just about. Haz is cooking food, if you’re asking. Lunch for us. It’s a whole production, you should see it.”

“Oh,” Liam says, “Is he—does he—”

Zayn sighs. “What was last night to _you_ first? Need to establish that, don’t you think?”

Liam bites his lip as he sits up. “I don’t know _what_ to call it. It—it’s the first time I’ve actually felt comfortable during sex, you know, and so I can’t exactly fault it. It was fantastic, to be honest with you.”

Zayn’s eyebrows raise in alarm. “What do you mean, ‘first time you’ve felt comfortable,’ were you—”

“No—No! Goodness sakes, Zayn, _no_. It’s just—it’s the first time I’ve felt comfortable with myself. I guess.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says wistfully. “Harry tends to do that to people.”

Liam nods. He lets the silence settle—him and Zayn were always like this, always about the comfortable silence, before Zayn speaks up.

“How good was he?” he asks.

Liam nods. “He was _great_ , Zayn,” Liam says—and Liam—Liam finally _understands_ Zayn and Harry and they made so much _sense_ now, Harry—and Zayn just—

“I’m so sorry, Zayn,” Liam says, “For. Harry, I mean, we were both—”

Zayn puts a finger on Liam’s lips, let his thumb caress his cheek. “It’s okay. God, Li, it’s okay,” Zayn says.

They sit in companionable silence and Liam’s still grasping at _straws_ (because he doesn’t even understand half the things going on right now) when he hears a knock on the door. Zayn opens it, and he sees Niall shielding his eyes with his arm left arm. “Are you sufficiently dressed yet?” he asked.

“I—” and Liam looks down to find himself fully clothed. “I am, actually,” he continues.

“Well,” Niall says, “That’s a relief. Harry says food’s done,”

Liam scrambles to his feet, wanting to talk to Harry before everyone attacks the food. He finds Harry waiting in the living-room with a table full of food. Zayn wasn’t kidding.

“Harry,” Liam says, whispering. He finds the situation delicate, and found it necessary to not risk _anything_. “About last night—”

Harry smiles at Liam before he dashes for him, hugging him tight. “Li,” Harry says, “It’s. I love you, yeah? You’re my friend, and I’ll—I just hate seeing you hurt.”

Liam felt his knees buckle, felt the tears prickle his eyes, and he doesn’t hold back, not this time. He _sobs_ on Harry the way he hasn’t ever since, and Harry’s rubbing circles against his back, kissing his cheeks and whispering _I love you,_ and _I love you,_ and he’s joined by more voices and more arms wrapping around him moments after.

He would feel pathetic for _all_ of it, but he’s surrounded by reassuring smiles and eyes full of love for _him_ , for _just Liam_ , that he feels it overflow and he feels a lightness afterward that he hasn’t for a long time.

\---

It’s summertime, finally, and Liam’s finished all his coursework and managed a decent grade for a first-year. Harry, Zayn, Niall, and Josh are holding a year-ender at that pub they first performed in—that is, of course, after they come back from their mini-tour. Liam misses them all terribly, even though they’re on Facebook and Skype. He misses them so _much_ that he’s bookmarked the YouTube channel with their video diaries. They answer some questions from the fans of the band (he’s still surprised at how much they’ve got), and it shocks him that, for the latest video, some fan’s asked about him.

Zayn reads the question: _Will Liam ever ever ever go on tour with you? He’s so hot! What instruments does he play?_

They all laugh, and take turns answering the question.

Niall: _Liam plays almost everything._

Josh: _Except the drums._

Niall: _I’m still better at guitar._

Harry: _He’s right fit, I agree._

Zayn: _So to answer your question properly—it’s all on Liam. He’s been busy with school and his jobs lately, and he’s working so hard, but he’ll always have a place on tour with us._

It’s ridiculous, Liam thinks, how his friends felt the need to rid Liam of his insecurity, how they always make sure, over and over, that Liam’s a part of the band, even if he doesn’t tour. They can’t seem to help it, though; they’ve become this crazy sort-of codependent group-thing, and Liam’s immensely thankful, insanely grateful for it every single day.

Liam’s head is less stuck wherever else, and he’s finally adjusted to life in a city bigger than he’s used to. It took him about half a year to do so, but once he’s got it, he finds that it’s pretty much _home_ everywhere. He’s got more friends now, but he always (always) goes back to the boys. He messages them, a short _maybeeeee i can play keyboard on your tour!!!!_ and sends it to Harry and Zayn. Zayn replies minutes later with a _you serious? :) x_ and Liam decides to reply later on, when they’re meeting for the year-ender.

He decides to _finally_ go on that grocery run he’s got to do for the band’s year-ender. He gives his laptop and notes to Dani (who never minds him leaving them to her), and heads out. He’s got a post-it in his palm with a list of supplies he’s to bring to Jonathan’s (the pub), and he has absolutely _no idea_ what Harry would need three pounds of nachos for, but Liam supposed that this tour made hungry boys out of all of them. When Harry said he rented out the place, he literally meant it: the whole place was theirs to make use of, and the only thing Old Man Jon (as in _Jonathan_ )’s left them are the security. It falls, of course, under the condition that the place is _spotless_ the next morning—which Liam wouldn’t count on, really—but Harry’s got a plan to change the place up a little, make sure there were no chairs at all. The way of the floor, or something.

Liam finishes his purchases, paying for them with some of the royalties he’s got for co-writing the album (still can’t believe he’s getting paid for it), and he makes a run to Jon’s. He greets the owner at the door, and settles the food in the bar-counter. Liam’s made sure he got everything: three pounds of nachos, a pound tomatoes, two pounds cheese (which cost his pocket some fortune, but Harry _promised_ he’d pay for it), other ingredients, solo cups. They’re pretty much good to go, Liam thinks.

He fishes out his mobile from his pocket and messages the whole band, _got your stuffff better eat them all or they’ll be bad tomorrow :((((((((((_ , hits _send_. He gets a reply from Niall later _—Won’t let anyone touch half of it do you know me???_ —and Liam laughs in agreement.

Liam goes back to his flat building to get the car his sister lent him. Liam politely requested Nicola for her car to fetch the boys from the airport (because heaven knows they’re useless with one of their own). Nicola agreed on the condition that she gets it back spotless, no questionable stains allowed. Liam swore, even held both hands out, and Nicola smiled kindly and tossed him the keys. It’s a comfort, that car—reminds him of his mother’s back at home. It was an SUV-type thing, and Liam wasn’t particular with cars, but this one drives smoothly even if it’s got some miles to it already. He chalks it down to Nicola’s anal retentiveness: she’s kept that car like it was her baby.

The route is familiar to Liam; he’s done this many times over, become the band’s designated driver. _And that is why you’ve got a page, Li,_ Zayn would say, and Liam would shrug. “Least I could do,” he’d say, and Zayn gives him a longsuffering look. Last time he’s driven them (to the airport, he remembers), Liam smiled. “I’m doing this because you’re my friends, now let it go.”

Liam tried not to notice how the whole vehicle lights up at the statement, but their damn smiles are infectious. He smiled the whole way back.

\---

Niall’s got stories of “thirsty fangirls who wanted a drink,” and Liam knows they’re some innuendo for something. Niall’s stories are always hilarious, though, so he listens to how they find fans _everywhere_ , and “you’d think they were fans of a fucking _boyband_ and not us, Liam, should’ve seen them!”

Liam pipes in. “You kind of _are_ a boyband, though,” he says. “Girls love you, you all could sing to some degree—”

“—Josh can’t,” Niall adds.

“We can’t dance!” Zayn says.

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Liam says, “But your aesthetic appearance appeals to a certain target demographic, and—”

“Alright,” Zayn says, “We’ve got faces to attract teenies, we get it. Now stop using big words, Lee, it’s not fit for you.”

“But _you_ said big words are for _everyone_ , Zayn!” Liam exclaims.

“I regret teaching them to you,” Zayn replies, “You’re _misusing_ them.”

In the buzz of the vehicle, Liam fails to notice how quiet Harry is until Liam feels Harry’s cold hands on accident. He turns to Harry at the stoplight, whispers, “you alright?”—to which Harry replies with a sharp nod.

“I’m good, yeah. Say, Zayn,” Harry says, then turns to look at him from where he’s seated.

“Yea?”

“Mind if we drop our shit off at yours first? Mine’s a bit—messy right now, I suppose,”

Zayn shakes his head. “Mine’s worse; got paint everywhere,” Zayn says, “And there’s absolutely no space, I’m sure, and your _mess_ is never really _mess_.”

Harry sighs, and Liam _swears_ he sees Harry shiver. “I can ask my sister if you can leave your things at my place, if it’s a bother,” Liam says, “She’d say yes, I’m sure.”

“It’s alright, Li,” Harry says, “I’m probably overreacting. Maybe it’s not a mess,” he says. Liam takes the usual turn to Harry’s flat, then, dropping their things off before he parks his car.

He catches up with them, going up. He feels his feet tingle while he’s going up the elevator, though he doesn’t know why. He reaches Harry’s flat in no time, then he hears whispers from behind the door. He hears Harry’s roommate inside, and Liam finds it very _odd_ that Mr. Absent Roommate never showed his face in all the months Liam’s known Harry, but he chalks it down to timing.

He hears “I’ll fix it, I swear!” before Liam rings the bell. When Harry answers the door, he sees no-one else but the boys from the band, and broken china at their feet and—was that _blood_?

“He wasn’t kidding,” Zayn says. Liam lets out a nervous exhale, head spinning for a bit.

“What _happened_ , Haz?” Liam asks, trying to wrap his head about what could have possibly _happened_. Harry’s flat looked like a murder scene without the body. It _scares_ him.

Harry shakes his head. “Lou seems to have brought his work home, I suppose,” he says. Liam shakes his head at this, throwing his arms out in anger.

“Your roommate should have _fixed_ it, then! He should have tidied up after himself,” Liam says, “Even if he _does_ pay for this flat.”

Liam’s outburst has got them all worried, Harry against Zayn’s arms, Niall tugging Liam towards him and giving him a hug. “Don’t worry about it, yeah?” Niall says, “Lou’s like that. Lou’s always like that.”

“It’s alright,” Liam says, finally breathing right. “I’m just _scared_ for you, Harry.”

Harry smiles at him and shakes his head. “No need to,” he says, “Lou protects all of us, it’s fine.”

 _Protects?_ Liam mouths because he doesn’t get it at _all_.

“Come on,” Josh says, “they’re all waiting for us at Joe’s.”

Liam shrugs it off. “But,” he shouts after they’ve walked beyond the doorway, “Aren’t you going to clean this up?”

Harry shrugs, whips his hand. “No,” he said. “It’s Lou’s mess, let _him_ clean it up.”

\---

Three hours and way more drinks later, Liam is _hammered_. He’s sitting down, leaning against one of the posts, and Harry’s beside him, making out with Zayn. He can see bits of tongue, sees Zayn’s hands feel Harry much more tenderly than Liam himself ever could, those moments when he and Harry needed comfort from each other—it’s not “friends with benefits,” per se (but perhaps it is); they’ve never gone as far as they have that night, April 19 th, but they do sneak kisses here and there, mutual handjobs in Harry’s bedroom when Liam’s too stressed with coursework and Harry’s dealing with record executive bullshit about profits. Zayn knows how Harry and Liam are, comes to accept those moments of comfort as part of Harry, a much needed catharsis. In much the same way that Liam is comfort, though, Zayn is passion and love and Liam’s glad that those two got their shit together and finally started snogging each other.

Liam seeks physical attention much, much less after Zayn and Harry got together. Zayn confronted him about it just last week, gave him a massage with it, too.

“You’re gone all tense again—you don’t anymore, do you?”

“Don’t _what_?” Liam asked.

“You know, with Harry?” Zayn replied, thumb firmly working out a knot in Liam’s back. That felt _good_.

Liam turned towards Zayn, the latter’s hands stilling. “I—no, I mean. I thought. Isn’t it strange to you?” Liam said.

Zayn shrugged, then shook his head. “If you need it, you need it,” he said. “Might even give you an invitation with the both of us, how’d you like that?” and Zayn gave Liam his best goofy grin.

Liam laughed, and laughed hard. He’s laughing at the ridiculousness of the statement, of how Zayn’s just propositioned a fucking _threesome_ with him and Harry and Liam can’t seem to wrap his head around it, but he’s begun to understand.

Liam thinks back to how they all interact with each other—how very _physical_ they get with one another, because he didn’t have this back at home, not with Andy and the others. Then he shakes his head and thinks of how comfortable he feels here, how—how this place, this city, in its enormity, was kind of like _home_ to him. Perhaps it was the familiarity of it, how he knows where to go if he needed to find decent tea, or the occasional coffee, or where they make the best fry-ups like they did back at home. And there’s also the distinctly American quirks to it: Liam also knows where to find the best coffee (his tongue’s grown to appreciate it), or good burgers, and fries, and Chinese take-out and New York pizza.

Liam’s become accustomed to how things are _here_ that it feels unfair for him to still not to refer to this place as _home_.

He feels hands on his shoulders—warm, callused (as he could feel with the thin thread of his shirt separating skin), and he turns his head to have someone else’s lips attached to his. Liam pulls away, a wee bit pissed off at how this guy does not value consent by the looks of it; the man shrugs and smiles apologetically.

He’d be dumb to refuse this request if this guy didn’t seem like an asshole just earlier because he was _fit_. He was certainly more compact than Liam was, but he’s got this happy quality to his face that he appreciates.

“Sorry. I mean, I swear I didn’t mean it,” the man says. He seems plastered by the looks of it, eyes going off in all directions.

Liam nods; he’s a bit inebriated himself. “’S alright,” Liam says, “Just—ask next time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” the man says. “Can I ask now?”

Liam laughs. “After you ask for my name,” he says.

The man laughs—it’s a pleasant laugh, and Liam’s getting warm by the alcohol and the warm eyes. “I’m Tom, and you are—?”

“Payne. I mean, Liam,” Liam replies.

This fit creature—Tom—bites his bottom lip in response. Liam’s eyes follow his tongue. “It wouldn’t be inappropriate to make a joke out of your name, would it?” Tom asks.

Liam rolls his eyes. “It’s been done before,” he says. “Quite painful, honestly.”

Tom laughs almost-immediately. “Quite—quite _painful_ —that’s _horrible_ ,” he says.

Liam shrugs. “My name, my rules.”

Tom lingers around—Liam still doesn’t know what he’s stuck doing here, to be honest; Zayn and Harry are still off in their own little world, smoking weed and “shotgunning,” if Liam remembers the term correctly. Niall’s up on stage, playing guitar, and singing with that fantastic voice of his, Josh providing back-up percussions. Liam feels a finger trace circles on his clavicle, before Liam faces Tom, who’s sitting way closer than he was, then Tom adorably cocks his head— _may I?_ —before Liam closes the gap between them.

Kissing Tom is nothing like kissing Harry—but then Harry is a different breed altogether. Where Harry was intoxicating and comfortable, Tom was frantic and more, and _more_. It was as good a snog as any—really, Liam’s been getting it good these days—but he’s _got_ to wonder why there are people like him and Harry even remotely _wanting_ to touch him when Liam is—Liam’s just—

Liam feels a prick against his spine, and a lightness unlike what he’s experienced with Harry. He feels the edges of his vision blur, feels the darkness creeping in. He feels cold, oh so _cold_ , he’s freezing. His throat’s stuck and he feels like he’s falling, and he’s suddenly no longer in the pub kissing Tom, he’s—he’s—he can’t breathe, he’s panicking, his mind’s racing a billion words, a thousand thoughts, what the fuck is _happening_ when he can’t even move his fingers?

Liam hears people screaming his name—hears Josh tell people to get the fuck out. Liam hears Harry chant his name in panic, hears Zayn mutter _shit, shit_ , and the last words Liam hears are his name repeatedly, saying _Liam, please, hang in there— Liam — Liam!_

\---

Liam wakes up to the familiar lights of Harry’s living-room ceiling. He looks around, sees it spotlessly clean again, like the china wasn’t scattered in the first place. He sees footsteps, though, mud tracks all over the floor made by shoes (and feet, presumably) that were quite small. He feels a towel against his forehead, and he feels sluggish, feels the bile rising up his throat. He retches, only to have soothing hands behind him, rubbing in circles, and a bucket by his face.

“Hey, hey. Ssssshhhh, it’s alright, yeah? Just let it out. You gotta let it out,” and Liam encounters Zayn.

Liam directs what he hopes is a _thankful_ look at Zayn, wants to ask: “Where—what,”

Zayn smiles. “Hey, don’t force yourself, Li,” he says, “Just. Harry’s in the other room. He needs time to himself, to sort this out. He’s calling Lou over.”

“Lou—his _roommate_ Lou?” Liam asks, words coming to him slowly, but he’s still managing to talk. “Are you—is he—did you guys break up?”

Zayn laughs this time, reassures Liam that no such thing happened. “What possessed you to think of _that_? Okay, bad joke, you _were_ possessed, but what—”

“They used to be together, weren’t they,” Liam said, before he’s completely absorbed what Zayn was saying because Zayn was implying that Liam was possessed and—

“Possessed, Zayn, _what_?”

Zayn bit his lip before he replied. “You were, then you weren’t. Now drink your tea, it’ll make you feel better. Your flight back home’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

Liam shakes his head. “No,” he says, “It’s still on the thirteenth.”

“It’s the twelfth, babe,” Zayn says.

Liam squints his eyes. “The twelfth?” he says. “That means it’s probably been—I’ve been out for a whole _week_?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says.

Liam shakes his head, still confused. “Why—no hospital, I mean—”

“They can’t do much about it,” Zayn says. “Thing that did this to you knew what to do, it’s a hard thing.”

“What—what happened?” Liam asks. “Did I get like. Poisoned or something?” because that’s the only logical explanation Liam could come up with.

Zayn nods. “Strong poison, yeah. Something like that. Should teach you to watch who you kiss, then,” Zayn says.

“’m sorry,” Liam says, vertigo pulling him down towards the comfort of the couch. Zayn wipes the sweat from Liam’s forehead (but it’s cold, it’s still so _cold_ ).

“Shhhhhh,” Zayn whispers, “Just go back to sleep, Li, we’ll take care of this.”

\---

The next time Liam wakes up after that, he’s too tired to even lift his eyelids. His body’s too heavy for _anything_ , like he can’t get his muscles to coordinate with his mind.

He hears conversation—clear enough, this time; he thinks the worst is over. He no longer feels any pain, just numb and heaviness. He feels fingers—thumbs, really—pressing against the center of his forehead, then his temple.

“I _told_ you to be careful, Harry,” he hears. Is this Harry’s infamous roommate, then? Doesn’t matter much to Liam if he keeps doing _that_ , his fingers feel good against Liam’s skin.

“I _tried_ , Lou,” Harry says, and Liam was correct in assuming that the voice—these unfamiliar hands—is _indeed_ Harry’s roommate.

“Not hard enough—oh god, he doesn’t go home much, does he?” Lou asks.

“No—why?” Harry says, clearly confused (but never as clueless as Liam is because what the _fuck_ is going _on_ right now?).

Lou sighs. “It’s just—something, yeah? Something important,” he says. “But we’ve got most of the poison out, and you _said_ you’ve exorcised whatever bloody _thing_ was eating him up—”

 _Exorcised?_ Liam thinks, _What the fuck does he mean by “exorcised,” and why the **fuck** is no one reacting to this?_

“Yeah,” he hears Harry say. “I—I’m really _sorry_ , Lou,” he says. “It’s just—I was weak and Niall and Josh were weak and he doesn’t—can’t we _tell_ him, Lou?”

 _Which only means to say they **know** something. They all. **Know** something. And didn’t even bother to at least _ warn _him._ Liam feels the upset and the vomit, again, but he’s soothed by hands on his stomach.

“You _know_ why we can’t, Harry,” Lou says, “The longer we wait, the better he’ll be,”

“But,” Zayn interrupts (or at least Liam _thinks_ it’s Zayn), “He can’t be any better than he is _now_ without training, can he?”

He hears a sigh, then feels warm breath on him. Must be Lou. “We’ll get there when it gets there. I trust you all, I mean, he’s got your help and he’s. He just wasn’t protected well enough. He’s exhausted, isn’t he?” and Liam could _swear_ he hears a fondness in that voice, seeping in behind the worry. He mentally shakes it off, though; must be all the meds they’ve probably force-fed him.

Liam attempts to move against the force pinning him down, and the only success he has is his finger twitching.

“See, he’s pretty strong already,” Lou says, and Liam wants to _move_ , goddamn it. He feels his arm lift from the couch, grabs that hand on his arm, as he hears, “I best be getting his things. It’s the best protection he’s got.”

Liam finally manages to open his eyes, and he feels nothing but cool wind pressed against his arm. He sees no-one else there, except for Harry and Zayn and Niall and Josh.

He hears foreign words uttered under quiet breaths by a distinct, warm, bright voice, and Liam closes his eyes and dreams again. He swears he dreams of sunshine and lightning and the smell of grass after the rain.

\---

(Liam wakes up in the middle of the night and takes a wee. He feels better than he has this whole day, but he’s still sleepy. He goes back to the couch, tucks in the extremely comfortable duvet Harry’s chosen for him, and as he closes his eyes, he feels soft lips press against his forehead.

He hears a whisper. “Have a safe flight,” it says, and Liam smiles at the comfort of it. He thinks it’s probably just the whispers of his dream speaking to him, but he finds it warm and comfortable, nonetheless.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things should be fairly obvious already.


End file.
